


i think the kids are in trouble

by theviolonist



Category: One Direction (Band)
Genre: F/M, Het, Porn
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-07-18
Updated: 2012-07-18
Packaged: 2017-11-10 05:55:59
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,489
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/462949
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/theviolonist/pseuds/theviolonist
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Eleanor is angry. Harry is there. Sex ensues.</p>
            </blockquote>





	i think the kids are in trouble

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the following prompt at the kinkmeme: _Eleanor finds Louis a bit much at times. Their relationship is moving too fast. The final straw is[the birthday cake he gets her](http://media.tumblr.com/tumblr_m795d14puz1r2mwpoo1_500.jpg). So she has a night of mind-blowing, filthy sex with Harry to make herself feel better. Guilt in the morning would be awesome._
> 
> Title from The National's _Conversation 16_.

It's not like she planned it, at least not consciously; though now that it's happened she sees how it came to this, how her anger slowly accumulated in her lungs until she couldn't take it.

She remembers – wasn't drunk enough not to, though now she wish she had been. 

*

It's her birthday, her fucking birthday, and Louis – Louis got her a cake. A ridiculous, over-the-top, fucking _Disney_ cake, with an ugly sugar girl that's supposed to look like her, and Eleanor is pretty sure she's never seen something so ugly. Or maybe it's the anger talking. But still, it's pretty fucking ugly. 

(But what's running through Eleanor's mind, when she sees it, what's kicking and screaming and roaring, it's – that's not how you say happy birthday to your girlfriend of two years, that's not how you treat the girl you're supposed to love, that's not me, that's not me, you could at least _pretend_ , you stupid self-centered prick.)

"Thank you," she says instead, faintly but with as much enthusiasm as she can muster, considering. There are photographers and friends and _people_ there, after all. Despite what everyone seems to believe, Eleanor isn't one for a public display of rage. 

Louis has the gall to look mildly affronted. Eleanor wishes a selection of horrible deaths on him, then immediately feels bad, because that's the kind of person she is. 

_Fuck it,_ she thinks, and slips out of Louis's half-assed embrace to discreetly pour herself a glass of wine. 

Harry gives her a look she can't really decipher, dark and a little malicious. She's never been able to read him, doesn't know if he hates her or doesn't care about her or likes her, but in the end she doesn't really care, because he's probably a bastard too. (She's afraid he can read her for a second, then decides he can't. Fuck him too.) Boys with dark eyes have never been anything but trouble, anyway. 

Eleanor drains her glass, pours herself another one and goes back to Louis, a fake smile stretched on her lips. She's so good at this it's nauseating. 

The evening feels slow, with Louis laughing near her ear (she can't bear the sound. She wants to slap him every time he opens his mouth) and the other boys hovering around them, never going away for more than a few minutes. Eleanor has a whole book of nasty things to say about their co-dependency, their inability to spend fucking _five minutes_ without touching each other, even though they always cautiously avoid touching her. Eleanor takes it like everything – like being stabbed in the chest. She wonders how Danielle does it (but she probably hasn't the same problems, the boys always loved her better – _everyone_ always loved her better). 

Eleanor plays her part to perfection and smiles and jokes and thanks everyone who calls her 'the girlfriend of Louis from One Direction,' Rihanna be damned. She doesn't snap. She doesn't fall apart. (What she does, however, silently, while she watches everyone spend a party that should be hers care about nothing less, is ask herself how and why she fell in love with Louis from One Direction.)

When everyone starts trailing out, Eleanor is so exhausted that she feels like her bones are going to crumble to white dust, little puddles of her slipping in the cracks of the floor. She wonders if they would notice. _Stop with the self-pity_ , she tells herself instead, and starts collecting the plastic glasses scattered across the room. 

She wants nothing more than to go to sleep, and she tells Louis just that. He looks a little disappointed – why, she can't imagine; probably some other ridiculous excuse for a birthday present he was planning on unleashing on her – but he says he understands and kisses her on the lips. 

"I'm going, then," he says, and squeezes her hand. "Go to sleep, I'll come by tomorrow and help you finish cleaning."

She nods, feeling numb. As she watches him leave, she wonders if he really is as horrible as she's been telling herself – wonders how much the media has infiltrated and poisoned their relationship, how much it made her believe things that aren't true, wonders about the rumors of his homosexuality, the distance... but the truth is, Louis is _too much_. Yes, he's sweet, sometimes – but he's also loud and brash and annoying and he doesn't know when to stop and he's twenty but really he's twelve at heart, and Eleanor isn't blind. He and Harry may not be shagging, but there is something there. Probably one-sided, probably half-platonic, Eleanor doesn't care, she doesn't want to know about it. The point is, there is something, and Eleanor – Eleanor doesn't like feeling like a side dish. It may sound stupid, but she's been waiting for too long for a fucking prince charming. 

She's exhausted but she doesn't go to bed immediately, instead continuing to clean up almost mechanically, making an effort not to look at the demolished remains of the cake. It wasn't even that gross, in the end. Too much sugar, still sticking to the back of her teeth, but still. Not bad. Well, she supposes it figures, considering how much Louis paid for the fucking thing. 

She's kind of surprised when she hears a knock. She checks her watch – it's almost three a.m., and everyone's been gone for more than an hour now, popstars that they are, with their busy schedules and stupid curfews. She checks her reflection in the doorway mirror and winces, pushing a few strands of hair behind her ear. God, she looks almost as exhausted as she is. 

She opens the door. As the cold air hits her, she realizes that she's still a little buzzed, her blood running hot in her veins. She shivers violently. 

Harry's standing there, hands in his pockets, beanie pushed low on his curls. 

"Harry," she says, trying (and failing) to come up with a reason why he might he here. 

He half-smiles. It looks like he gave up halfway through trying to look polite, because it's her. She doesn't sigh. She's used to it. 

"I forgot my phone," he mumbles, and she opens the door to let him in, sighing for real this time. Seriously, can't the boy spend five hours without his phone? 

He finds his phone wedged between two cushions on the couch and immediately check his messages. They're like drug addicts with these things, Eleanor thinks, frowning a little – she never understood everyone's fascination with technology, but that's probably because she got so much shit over Twitter and Tumblr and whatever-the-fuck-it-is kids use for abuse these days. Harry doesn't leave as soon as he's done, though, as she expected – he stays there, arms hanging uselessly at his sides, teeth working on his lower lip. 

Eleanor tries to ignore him and go on with her cleaning, but her apartment isn't that big and Harry's presence is making her jittery. She can't help sneaking furtive glances his way, trying to figure out why he's still here, what he wants. He's good-looking, she notices without really meaning to – he always is, but tonight he's got something more, his stupid band T-shirt loose around his torso and his curls a little flat from the beanie. 

"Help me," she says eventually, handing him a trash bag. The _if you're going to stay_ goes unspoken. 

He seems startled out of a daze but nods, picking up a few bottles and carrying them to the kitchen. He brushes against her to get to the sink, and Eleanor immediately stiffens at the contact. Electricity zings through her body. 

She ducks her head, but doesn't miss Harry's eyes going a clearer green, as though her reaction had completely woken him up. When his arm brushes the small of her back as he goes out of the kitchen, it doesn't feel like it's just the cramped kitchen's fault. 

He repeats the movement several times as he goes in and out of the kitchen to bring back ashtrays and bottles, and each touch has her more wired, her body going taut almost against her will when she feels him getting close. She isn't sure why she isn't putting a stop to it; she feels a little drunk, the smell of alcohol heady and pregnant in the air, feels hot in her light dress, sweat beading at her temples. 

She covers the remaining of the cake with film and puts it in the fridge when she feels Harry coming up behind her. His hands hover near her hips, but he doesn't touch her, his breath ghosting against the nape of her neck. Eleanor shuts the fridge door. The fridge light goes off abruptly, drawing the pale shadow of their bodies on the shiny white door. Harry's arms come up to bracket her, his palms pressed against the fridge door on either side of her shoulders. 

Eleanor turns around. Harry doesn't move. He's looking at her in the eye now, and his pupils aren't green – they're dark, almost black, like he wants to eat her, consume her. Eleanor tries to remember when Louis ever looked at her like that and when her brain comes up blank, stops trying. 

_Kiss me_ , Eleanor thinks, chin high, staring right back at Harry. She won't kiss him, but she doesn't know what she'll do if he does – probably kiss back. She hasn't felt that turned on in a long time. 

But he doesn't kiss her – he lifts a hand up and brushes his fingers against her mouth, his thumb pushing against her bottom lip until it slips half into her mouth. Eleanor gives it a kitten lick, running her tongue against the inside of her teeth. Harry's eyes widen slightly. He gets his thumb out of her mouth and drags it against her bottom lip, getting it damp with saliva. 

Eleanor waits, waits for something to happen, for him to pounce on her, claim her, but he seems to snap out a trance and steps back, only one step to allow her to slip out of his grasp. She waits a while before she does, breathing heavily – she hadn't realized, but now it's almost deafening, her – _their_ – labored breathing in the silence. Her breasts brush against his chest when she moves away, and her nipples go rigid almost instantly. Harry sucks in breath. 

The silence hangs heavier on them after that. Eleanor keeps cleaning, but Harry sits on the arm of the couch and just stares at her, his eyes burning holes in her back. Eleanor feels hot, the anger mixing with the arousal in her stomach, heat licking her insides. 

This little game lasts a few minutes, until Harry sets his phone down on the couch, looking determined. He stands up, and Eleanor lets him crowd her against her bedroom door, his arms coming to bracket her again until they're almost chest to chest. Eleanor doesn't look down. This is hers. 

"Eleanor," he says, and it sounds like a warning, but Eleanor doesn't listen, only cocks an eyebrow and smirks, brushing light fingers against his side. _Go on, big boy_ , her eyes says. 

But he still doesn't do anything and Eleanor can't take the heat his body radiates, not if he isn't going to do _something_ and she's going to have to get herself off alone, when he's gone. She doesn't want that. She doesn't want the loneliness, not again.

It's a little harder to get away this time, what with him still being pressed against her and not looking decided to let her go, but she shimmies until she gets free. She bends to collect a beer bottle on the living-room table when he grabs her hips from behind, pulls her up and against the bedroom door again, her face smushed against the wood. It almost doesn't hurt. 

He presses closer, hands curling possessively on her hips. Eleanor doesn't have the energy to feel ashamed so she doesn't, lets herself enjoy it, the height and weight of him behind her, his large hands on her hips, fingers digging bruises into the skin. She feels his hard-on against the cleft of her ass. Heat rushes through her, so strong it almost knocks her over. 

"What about that, then?" he whispers nonsensically in her ear, and she shivers. She'd forgotten his voice was so deep. Fuck, fuck, _fuck_.

She doesn't want this like that, though. She'd had more than her share of boys who didn't look her in the eye. 

She snorts. "Come on," she says, and turns around as swiftly as she can (which is not very, given that Harry is plastered against her back). 

He looks surprised – he probably thinks this is about Louis, and it is, to a certain extent, just not like he thinks. But Eleanor doesn't mind letting him believe what he wants, so she doesn't say anything, instead curls a hand at the nape of his neck, fingers tangling in his curls, and pulls him down to kiss him. 

It isn't a gentle kiss, by far – but it's a good kiss, filthy and wet, and Harry unashamedly slipping his tongue into her mouth, almost forceful, is something Eleanor didn't think she wanted until she had it. Eleanor gives back as good as she gets, nibbling on Harry's bottom lip with sharp teeth, plunging head first into the kiss, making it heavier, deeper, dirtier. 

She pushes her hips up to meet Harry's when he starts grinding against her almost unthinkingly, and smirks when he gasps into her mouth, fisting a hand into her hair. She always liked his hands – strong, thin, long fingers, the perfect hands for sex. And all these bracelets... it's like they're egging everyone on, saying "Look at these hands, aren't they perfect? Aren't they attractive? And these fingers, imagine what they would look like, pushing in and out of you..."

Eleanor wraps her legs around Harry's waist and Harry holds her up effortlessly, his hands coming up to cup her ass. His thumbs slip under her dress and settle on the inside of her thighs, mere centimeters away from where she's hot and wet, almost dripping. 

Eleanor moans, and Harry's mouth leaves hers to trail lower on her jaw and neck, sucking painful bruises in the hollow of her throat. Eleanor doesn't think about how they'll look tomorrow – or maybe she does think about it, and that's what makes her lean closer and whisper into Harry's ear, "Fuck me."

He shivers at that, a long, hard shiver that feels like he's been struck by lightning, breathing damply against Eleanor's collarbone, his thumbs brushing maddening circles on the skin of her thighs. 

"Yeah," he whispers against her skin, hoarse and low, and then repeats it again, more decided: "Yeah."

He pulls away from the door, taking her with him. She expects him to stumble at least a little but he holds her up like she's nothing, and she can't help the way it makes her even wetter. His thumbs slide closer to her clit. She lunges to kiss him and tangles her hands in his hair, pulling like she wants to devour him. He moans. She likes the way he isn't ashamed to make noises, the way she can tell he _likes_ sex, the thrill of it, the mindless pleasure; the way he accepts that it can be good even though it doesn't _mean_ something, or at least not something between the two of them. She feels a little liberated. (Louis pretends – he plays up his craziness and irresponsibility, but in reality he's as shameful and fear-ridden as the rest of them, ready to clamp his hand over his mouth as soon as he makes a sound.)

He carries her to the bedroom and throws her on the bed. He's careful but not too much, and it feels good, being _handled_ like that, being dominated. Eleanor's as much of a feminist as the next girl, but she can admit that sometimes there's nothing like getting thrown on a bed and fucked. Though –

"Eat me out," she says, and watches Harry look surprised for a second and then smirk, a cat-that-got-the-cream smirk. 

He fake-bows. "At your service, Milady," he says, and manages to make it sound dirtier than it's probably ever sounded. 

He starts undressing, and Eleanor hauls herself up on her elbows to watch, enjoying the way his long torso slides out of his T-shirt. He's not as tanned as Louis, but he's definitely more ripped, she thinks, and then decides to stop comparing him to Louis, because she wants to make this good for herself, and being mad at Louis will only make it sad and pathetic. So she stashes her anger at the back of her mind and licks her lips as she watches Harry strip down to his underwear and crawl on the bed, settling between her open knees. 

"You look wanton," he says, looking half-amazed and half-predatory. 

Eleanor laughs – of course Harry would use the word "wanton" as dirty talk. 

"Shut up and lick me," she says, and grabs a few pillows to put behind her back. She leans back expectantly. 

Harry looks at her for a few minutes, his thumbs back to brushing mindless little circles on the inside of Eleanor's thighs, and it takes all of Eleanor's pride not to scream to him to _fucking get to it_. 

Harry smirks teasingly but does, in the end – ducks between her thighs and presses his face against her knickers, inhaling deeply. The feeling of the strong bone of his nose against her sensitive clit is enough to make Eleanor whimper, and she curls her fingers in his hair, urging him on. 

He laughs – the vibrations make Eleanor moan again and it seems to encourage Harry, because he licks her through the cloth of her knickers and _ohfuckingod._ Eleanor pulls at Harry's hair again when he doesn't do anything after that, and this time he seems to get the message, getting to work like he really means it. He doesn't bother getting her knickers out of the way, only pushes them aside and licks a broad stripe across her clit, making her shudder all over. 

"Fuck," she croaks out, and he licks again, and again, and curls his tongue inside of her and does all these amazing things Eleanor has rarely seen outside of porn. He must _really_ like pussy, then. Not that Eleanor's complaining. 

Harry adds a finger, then two, still licking at her around them and humming something Eleanor doesn't recognize, and she can _feel_ his smile and it doesn't take more than that for her to come, her orgasm rippling through her and making her arch up. She cries out, her thighs clenching around Harry's head, and falls back down, boneless. 

Harry looks insanely good between her thighs, flushed, his chin a bit shiny and his smirk as fucking hot as ever, and Eleanor hauls him up to kiss him, their teeth clacking. The angle is awkward, but it turns good after a couple of seconds, Eleanor tipping her head for better access and Harry's hand moving to her hip. Eleanor still isn't fully undressed – Harry hitched her dress up to her stomach but that's all, and he's still in his underwear, grinding slightly against Eleanor's thigh. 

He hasn't come yet, but it's obvious that eating girls out is a huge turn-on for him, and it makes Eleanor a little jealous of all the girls he's exercised on to get this good, because boy, does the guy give good head. Eleanor thinks about returning the favor, but then she decides that tonight is about her, and as much as she'd like to suck Harry's dick, she also kind of wants to sit on it and make him scream. 

Harry seems like he has the same kind of thing in mind, and he pushes the dress off of her, barely pulling away long enough to get it past her shoulders. He kisses like he's waiting to get out of breath; he's all about extremes and Eleanor likes that, like that he's ready to go to whatever lengths to feel good and make her feel good too. 

He latches on her breasts as long as they're free, not even bothering to unclasp her bra, simply pushing it down to get to her nipples, sucking and licking and blowing on them, his warm breathe sending electric tingles straight down to Eleanor's crotch. Eleanor moans and shivers and thanks God that she put on the nice bra today. 

Harry's still hard though, almost achingly so, and Eleanor decides that he's suffered enough. "So what about fucking me?" she says. 

In the list of the answers she thought she'd get (that is, if she had had the time and energy to think of any), the "What about fucking _me_?" she gets wasn't even in the top five. It's not like she's actually against it, though, it's even kind of the thing she wanted, so she flips them over and sits astride on his hips, grinning down at him. She grinds against his still-clothed dick just for the fun of it, to watch him keen and bite his lip hard enough to carve teeth marks in the skin when cloth drags against his shaft. 

"Condom?" she asks. He nods and gestures to his jeans, on the floor at the feet of the bed. 

Eleanor raises a mocking eyebrow. "Someone's a bit presumptuous," she says, and he looks back at her, his raised eyebrows saying, _you know I'm not_. It probably shouldn't be as hot as it is. 

She crawls off him and gets the condom in one of his pockets after a bit of rummaging that feels agonizingly long. Heat is already flaring up again between her thighs, and the idea of it, rocking her hips against Harry's, Harry inside her, looking up at her, his hand on her hips, is enough to make it tingle and buzz, enough to make her want to grind down on the bed. 

When she turns back to him, she sees he's wasted no time in waiting for her and has discarded his underwear, his dick bouncing up over his stomach, red and leaking. Harry props himself up on his elbows. 

"Get over here," he says, slow and drawling, and it sounds out of a bad cowboy movie, it really does – Eleanor will never admit to how fast she crawls back onto him and kisses him like it's the last time she gets to (it probably is, but it's not exactly a bad thing). 

She rolls the condom over his dick, and they look at each other for a second until she finally, _finally_ slides down onto him, thighs bracketing his hips. They both release a sigh as she sinks down until he's balls-deep in her, his chest flushed and both of them breathing hard. She stays still for a second, enjoying the feeling of being filled and the sight of him, eyes screwed shut and hands griping the sheets, until he grits out, "Move."

She doesn't tease more, starts rocking her hips slowly and then lets herself go, slide up and down and rotate her hips _just so_ so that Harry is cursing and his hands fly up to squeeze her hips and then climb up to her breasts, rolling the nipples between his fingers. 

"Look at you," Harry says, looking a little amazed, but he has to stop to hiss between his teeth when Eleanor rolls her hips a little viciously, "taking it -"

Eleanor laughs. It's raucous and husky and it sounds like his voice melted into hers when they kissed, grew on her tongue like a gangrene. " _You_ 're the one who's taking it, love," she says, and then shows him, leaning back on her hands and moving her hips like she's got the devil in her. 

There's no more talking after that, just hissing and moaning and Harry's low grunt when he comes, his hips bucking up and catapulting Eleanor over the edge as they do. Her orgasm lasts longer, and she spasms over him, imagining the way he looks at her through he shut eyelids. He pulls out of her and she falls on top of him, exhausted. 

He opens his mouth to say something, but Eleanor doesn't want him to talk; she rolls off him, reaches over to kiss him breathless, then turns her back at him and falls asleep.

*

The morning is cold and of course Harry isn't there. Eleanor stretches and glances at her alarm. It's ten already – _fuck_ , and she has a missed call from Louis. _No voicemail_ , she thinks, relieved, and guilt floods her suddenly, like nausea. She wasn't even _drunk_ , for God's sake. 

She reclines on her pillows, trying to get her breath back, figure out a plan, _something_ , anything, but as soon is she lying down, eyes shut and a sigh half-out of her mouth, that she hears a knock at the door. 

Her heart jumps like a frightened rabbit and she glances at the room in alarm, trying to spot any sign of what happened the night before – she pushes the bin under the desk with her foot and dresses up hastily. The stink of sex is still pregnant, so she opens the window and tries to wave it out, flailing like a madwoman. 

"Coming!" she yells, and Louis laughs on the other side of the door. Eleanor's head is pounding, and her heart is a mad drum trying to beat out of her chest. She can't blame it – she wouldn't feel very proud to be in there either. 

She ends up shoving her dress and underwear from the day before in the wash basket and putting on new ones. She winds a scarf around her neck hastily in an attempt to cover the hickeys. She's trying to think coherently but there's nothing but _god, god, god_ running through her brain. If she could only vomit – but she feels empty, empty and sick, wretched, disgusting. 

She opens the door and Louis smiles, leaning in to kiss her. She ducks out without thinking about it, and he looks at her with wide, hurt eyes. _I can't take it_ , Eleanor thinks, and opens her eyes to tell the truth. 

"I'm sick," she says instead, hating herself as soon as the words are out. 

Louis frowns, looking concerned. "You okay?" he asks, and grabs her shoulders, directing her back inside. Eleanor tries not to think about how his fingers are pushing into the bruises Harry made, doesn't wince. 

"You should go to bed," Louis says, a wrinkle barring his forehead. "I'll make you chicken soup."

Eleanor thinks about saying no but ends up nodding, staggering back to her bedroom. At least she makes a good sick person, she remarks blurrily to herself as she sits on her bed, her knees giving out. 

_Fuck_ , she thinks, and takes her head in her hands.


End file.
